


Measured violence and tenderness

by Emilys_List



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Car Sex, F/M, Flirting, Gay For You, Honesty, Judaism, M/M, Realization, Rosh Hashanah
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-19
Updated: 2010-09-19
Packaged: 2017-10-12 00:57:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emilys_List/pseuds/Emilys_List
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An invisible and metaphorical Venn diagram pulls House and Wilson in painful and new directions. WARNING: There is semi-graphic heterosexual sex right off the bat, enough to take your eye out. If this type of content is objectionable because you like your porn as gay as "Glee," please exit immediately. If you can stomach it for the reward of boy-on-boy action, please hang on tight and click through.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Measured violence and tenderness

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Any characters recognizable from House do not belong to me, and do belong to David Shore, Fox, et al. I am merely borrowing them for a spell. Title comes from Michael Chabon's Manhood for Amateurs. Gates of Repentance is a prayer book used in reform synagogues during the high holidays and I used it liberally to shape one section. Text is quoted as appropriate.
> 
> A giant-sized THANK YOU to [petrichor fizz](http://petrichor-fizz.livejournal.com) for being generally awesome. Oh, yes, and for beta reading this story :) I swear - I cannot imagine not having her beta guidance prior to posting...

She sinks down on his cock, the contented sigh sounding almost like a wheeze as it leaves her throat. "Oh, fuck," she says, squeezing her muscles around him. "You're so hard."

If he wasn't three kinds of turned on, he would've rolled his eyes and said, 'Obviously. Look where you are.' Yet it was because of where she was that he was practically paralyzed, in pain and in love and in lust. He grunts and his hips rise off the seat slightly when she draws up, his lips on her neck as one hand fumbles for her clit.

She swats his hand away. "Just focus on fucking me," she pants. "Harder."

The back of his head flattens against the headrest in his car, his eyes rolling back, barely of their own volition. She's doing most of the fucking, slamming up and down on him at an exciting yet alarming rate, whisper-shouting filthy things into his ear. He often feels as if he's in one, long zipless fuck - not that there's anything wrong with that. And it's not that he objects to being objectified. It's simply that he finds no fault in intimacy. Being close. Being romantic.

Except.

Even Wilson, that great pantheon of corny and sap, would tell him to man up and fuck his girlfriend. So he does, amidst persistent protest from his leg. He loses himself wholly in her, in the way she grips his shoulders, then the way her arms wrap around his neck. Her hips are moving faster now. "Touch my clit, now, god, I'm so fucking close." He obeys. "You feel so good. Oh. Shit. Ohhhh. I wish you could fuck me in the ass right now." He notes that she often talks big, but rarely delivers. "Don't stop, oh god, don't stop! Don't, don't, oh god, oh, oh, oh..."

He comes shortly after she does, prompted by her contracting muscles and overwhelmingly arousing moaning. She slides off his lap to sit on the passenger's side, pulling her underwear up and skirt down. She slumps against his side as he cleans up, putting himself back together with a noticeable wet stain on the front of his jeans. "So. Still hungry?" He looks at her house, and the porch light, and is thankful that they don't see the shape of the babysitter in the window.

She lets out something that resembles a giggle. "We didn't make it to dinner, did we."

"No, though I don't mind. I always prefer sex to a steak."

She sighs, content, threading their hands and fingers together. "I know."

+

He heads down the hallway and finds him in his old bedroom, now housing the effects of Sam's household that haven't found their place in his yet. He's sprawled out on the floor, browsing through a packed bookcase. He watches House's back for a moment, lean muscles straining against cotton, then leans against the door frame. "Can you please go control Cuddy? She's a hundred sheets to the wind, pontificating on your awesomeness, and I'm afraid we're about to round third to talk about your dick or something."

House turns to look at him, trying and failing to stash his grin away. "Come on, you're at least a little curious."

Wilson shifts in his stance. "Uh-huh." He moves away from the door and walks towards House, asking, "What are you doing?" He immediately bites down on his tongue, creeped out by the soft, tender quality that seems to have taken over his voice.

House continues browsing. "Looking for my copy of The Genius Sings the Blues. Any chance you hocked it?"

"Any chance I'm you?" Wilson quips, earning a snort of approval from House. In companionable silence, he looks around the room, not long ago occupied by the man on the floor, and his mind begins to wander. Had it been so strange for them to share a home? It wasn't the first time - though, decidedly, it had been different than in the past. Was it strange that he'd enjoyed it so much? He misses them like this. He buries the urge to stroke House's hair and feels altogether not himself, and he pulls back and away. "I, uh, I'm gonna go join..." With his pulse racing, he practically runs down the hall, escaping the situation in which he'd first sought for solace.

Sam's face is blank and pale when he reaches them, and he feels nothing but overwhelming warmth and sympathy for her. He's relieved to be back in their presence, where everything is just as it should be. He takes his seat again next to Sam and she grips at his thigh. "Sweetie, Lisa was just suggesting that we all do this again next week."

'Lisa' is flushed and moon faced. She is inebriated, but not on wine alone. He smiles widely at them, then calls loudly for House, who after some effort drags her home, whispering things into her ear and making her laugh too loud.

When Sam drifts off to sleep, he slips out of bed and down the hall to House's old room. They (he and Sam) had talked about what to do with it. He flips the overhead light on. "We have to redecorate in here, James. It's so. Something." The 'something' she means is House, and without a doubt he permeates the walls, a fact Wilson is happy to hold on to, especially because the need to redecorate is only half the story. He's seen her browser history. He knows how old she is. He knows what he absolutely doesn't want but is afraid to tell her.

Wilson checks the bookshelf again, easily shifting to sitting, to standing, to kneeling, to bending over. He finally locates The Genius Sings the Blues, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, holding the record, not letting go.

-

He schlepps up to Hillsborough on a rainy, cold Rosh Hashanah morning, making a mental note to call his mother later. He slips into the back - he's always late for temple - and pulls the crushed yarmulke out of his breast pocket. He dons it quickly, and maneuvers himself into his seat, peeking over at his neighbor's prayer book and flipping through to join the rest of the congregation on page 175.

"Great is the eternal power at the heart of life; mighty the love that is stronger than death," reads the rabbi from the prayer book. He zones out. He doesn't mean to, but he does. He's been doing this a lot lately. He thinks about House's back and the Ray Charles record he has listened to repeatedly instead of returning. They reach the last verse of the call and response, and he says with the rest of the room, "We give thanks for the power to live and to act, and for the blessing of love that is stronger than death."

Going to temple is an annual ritual and habit, but with his bad luck of the last few years, he'd contemplated staying home this morning. Something about your girlfriend dying then your best friend being temporarily committed made temple seem at best perfunctory and at worst a place where pangs of guilt and pain make you feel even worse.

It was his best friend, inevitably, who metaphorically drove him to services this morning. Weeks of thinking of House, broadly and specifically, had lead to a fuzzy but memorable sexual encounter in his dream that was only tempered with a cold shower upon waking. If decades of temple going have taught him anything, it's that high holiday services are a cold shower for whatever ails.

During a period of meditation in the service, his eyes catch on one point in the text: "It is not enough for me to be able to say: 'I am;' I want to know who I am, and in relation to whom I live. It is not enough for me to ask questions; I want to know how to answer the one question that seems to encompass everything I face: What am I here for?" Every year that reminds him of someone. No one specific - just that guy who was blowing him in his dream.

They roll through the rest of the service and he's regretting that he forewent coffee and a bagel to make it here at a decent time. As the shofar sounds, he briefly closes his eyes and thinks about how he wants to begin this new spiritual year. He wishes what he always wishes - for a happy new year. His second wish for the last couple of decades: for House to be healthy, content and alive (happy would be overdoing it). A small, secret part of him whispers a third wish: for them to be more. But he's not sure that them being more would grant him a happy new year, or that House would be healthy or content. The rest of him overrides the smaller part as he opens his eyes and heads out early along with a few others.

He heads to the parking lot, unlocking his car and humming "Hear Our Prayer." Whatever he's been feeling is bad for him and bad for House, and he should focus on what is in front of them and what he can control. He can be a better doctor. He can be a better boyfriend/ex-husband to Sam. He can honor all of the pushing and kvetching he did to get House and Cuddy together and stop coveting his best friend.

He can, as the prayer book suggests, "become the prayer for goodness that your lips have uttered."

+

He funnels into Wilson's office, shutting the door behind him. "Need your help. Thirteen has a new girlfriend and I'm trying to orchestrate a situation where they'd get naked in public." Wilson looks up briefly, then returns immediately to his paperwork. "This is where you say, 'Lesbian sex? Really? Where do I sign?'" He closes his mouth and can only hear Wilson's pen scratching against paper. "Does Sam have your balls in such a tight vice grip that you can't be interested in other women?"

Wilson sighs, setting his pen down. "What do you really want, House?"

He's been found out, and he didn't have time to prepare his ruse this far into the conversation. Damn. "You've been avoiding me."

"No, I haven't, I've just been here."

"And I've been working late, dear. And that thong in my back pocket is a surgical mask." House helps himself to a seat on the couch, waiting for Wilson's reply. When none comes, he asks, "Did you see what I was doing there? I was saying that you were giving me the same pathetic excuses you reserve for wives and girlfriends."

Wilson sighs, closing the folder and moving to his feet. "Clever. A triumph of rhetoric." He starts to gather papers, folders, and shuffles them into his briefcase, peering at the clock.

With the help of his cane, House comes to standing, comes right in to invade Wilson's personal space. "Your standard complaints have been about my recreational drug use, the way I treat people, and the way I treat you. I'm drug-free like a PSA, I'm getting sex more than should be allowed so I've been an angel to those around me, including you. So, really, there should be no complaints. We should be fine."

"We are fine."

"We're not." Suddenly, he's struck by how close Wilson's face is to his. "Why is this bothering me?" His breath is close enough to touch Wilson's lips.

Wilson looks at him, really looks at him, with his whole body and soul, blah blah blah. He looks like he has something giant to say, but can't, under duress. He steps back. Away. "I don't know," he finally says. "I'm meeting Sam. See you later?"

House nods as if he's granting Wilson permission to leave, and the other man exits quickly. He's left to stand alone in the middle of this familiar but suddenly foreign office, and he runs over the objects in it with his eyes, like he's in a patient's home, bent on finding out information that hasn't yet been disclosed. As is so often true, he doesn't find any conclusive evidence. But he wants.

+

He's not surprised when he answers the door. He's not surprised anymore. What surprises him is the way his pulse jumps and the way his pupils dilate - something he'd confirm with a mirror if one was handy. Since it wasn't, he just lets House in, as he thumps past with purpose.

"You're going to propose to Sam. No transactions on your credit card, but I know you, and you know me, so you probably paid in cash to throw me off the trail. We're coming up on a long weekend, and I think you're going to shove her away to some B&B so - you know what, I'm going to stop here. Don't do it. It's a mistake. You make mistakes constantly but you so rarely make them on the same person. Do not do this."

Wilson has been staring at the grains in the floorboards, but his eyes sweep upward and land somewhere on House's right shoulder. He stuffs his hands in his pockets. "Okay."

House as cartoon character arrives as he grapples with Wilson's answer, eyes wide and mouth agape. He flops down to the couch. "'Okay?' 'Okay?' That's all it took?"

"Sure," he lies. He sinks down on the couch next to House. "You're very persuasive."

"But it's persuasion usually supported by well-reasoned arguments. That was not one of them. That was weak, and poorly formed. And if you're not fighting me on something, it means that I'm wrong." He looks like someone stole away the football he was intent on kicking, and now he's sprawled out on his back.

Wilson pulls on his beer. "No ring. I'm not buying, I'm not proposing."

House steals his beer, finishing it. "That's why she's not here. She broke up with you."

Exasperated, he says, "You're an idiot." He looks at House and does what he's been doing for a month or more now: convinces himself not to kiss him, while trying to talk himself into manning up and being brave enough to close this small divide and fucking kiss him already. Instead of a singular act of bravery, he says, "No, she didn't break up with me." He swallows, concentrating hard on the pattern of the rug. "Why are you here?" He asks quietly.

"I missed your laugh," House says in his best beatific voice, and Wilson can't stop his smile in response.

Why it's this that breaks him down is hard to say. He turns to House and grabs the collar of his t-shirt with one hand, stroking the ribbed material with his thumb. "Stay still and don't say anything," he whispers. His hand stays put, so does House himself, and Wilson leans in, finally, agonizingly slow. At first it's too wet, and awkward, but there's a fragment of relief in giving in. He leans on that relief and his other hand fumbles to the back of House's neck, stroking the hairline and skin he finds there. He sighs, content, and slips his tongue into House's mouth. He hears and feels House emit a little moan, and Wilson is surprised for the first time that evening.

When they finally pull apart, House is wild eyed, aroused, while still trying to arrange this Rubik's Cube into correct formation. "You kissed me," he accuses. Wilson's hand is still on House's shirt, now resting roughly over his heart. He presses his hand in firmly and kisses the side of House's neck. He gives him access, more access, craning his head to the other side.

"Right," Wilson rasps against his skin. House tastes salty, he thinks, as he runs his tongue from mastoid process to clavicle. The hand over House's heart crawls down his front, to the hem, and here it pauses. It could head back north, underneath the soft cotton, feeling his muscles, scars, and the expansive stretch of skin waiting under the radar. Or, he could unbutton and unzip House's pants and stroke his cock. Decisions, decisions.

Before he gets the chance to venture forth, House lays a hand over his. "I can't do this."

It's now that embarrassment floods Wilson's cheeks with blush, bravado all but gone. (Erection still intact, though, to be clear.) He pulls away and folds his arms across his chest. "Right, right, I know, right."

House is shifting, rearranging, and it's clear he has something intact, too. "I'm not gay."

"I'm not gay," Wilson quickly responds. He bites his lip, his hand finding the back of his neck in his worst nervous tick. He's perspiring, just a little, in what he hopes is not an unattractive amount. Against what he thinks he should do, he goes with the truth instead. "I think I may be... gay for you. Only."

House's face warms, fading into a smile. But he packs it away. "I'm. I can't be kissing other people. It's not something I do."

"And by that you're implying it's something I do, right?" Wilson moves off the couch, away, to the kitchen for another beer. He uncaps one for each of them and hands a bottle to House, their fingertips brushing.

"I don't have to imply anything, it's a truth universally acknowledged that you're a whore."

"You let me kiss you," he counters. House is swallowing beer like his throat is on fire. When he comes up for air, he still doesn't answer, and stares at Wilson, blankfaced. "Not stopping me means you don't object." House gets to his feet, leaning on his cane, and limps to the kitchen. "Maybe you can do this. Maybe this is something that you do." Wilson leans his head back against the couch. Suddenly he's feeling very dizzy.

"Where's your booze, Wilson? Christ, it's like the temperance movement swept through."

He gets up and unearths a bottle of scotch House once re-gifted his way. Once the liquor is poured and imbibed, off to round two, House begins his rebuttal.

"I love her," he says, throwing most of the contents of his glass down his throat. "I love her. I waited for her to come around. I let you push me towards her - come to think of it, why were you pushing me towards her? Trying to mask your homoerotic tendencies?"

House was going to get a lot of mileage out of this; Wilson could tell. He sips at his scotch. "I want you to be happy and healthy. I want you..." he says, trailing off. He doesn't know why he's done what he's done, and that includes tonight. All he can attest to is that he wants to be doing more, right now, and he feels it like a gunshot. Wilson pushes House against the kitchen's island, far from safe harbor, and pins him between his body and the countertop. "I'll stop if you want me to." House's eyes flash to Wilson's, then fall to his mouth. He shakes his head 'no' but his body goes stiff.

"Stay still," House says, leaning in slowly. He closes his eyes before he gets to Wilson's face, and it's not until their lips meet that Wilson close his eyes too. They stand together like this, plastered to the island, their bodies mostly chaste with their lips and tongues meeting. Wilson toys with what to do with his hands - those useless, unimaginative appendages. He settles on one hand on House's face, stroking his cheek and stubble, until House's hand stills his own and he pulls out of their kiss. For a moment, he keeps their hands on his cheek, staring back into Wilson's eyes. "Okay," he says, diving in for an aggressive kiss, pulling Wilson's face flush with his.

Wilson cannot help but feel like he's riding a roller coaster - anticipating the drop, preparing for it, then lapsing into a perpetual state of freefall - coupled with the waves of nausea that continually threaten. These feelings intensify as House moves both hands down and down the front of his torso, cupping his dick through his jeans. Wilson jumps back, surprised, letting out a "Whoa!" He coughs, embarrassed, and House smirks. "I just - wasn't expecting that. Think you could warn a guy?"

"Think you could?"

He puts his hands to his hips, looking away. "Come on, you know what's going on."

House positions himself, sitting on the island, and Wilson watches his fingers dive habitually into his pocket, seeking a pill bottle that is no longer there. "I know that my best friend keeps jumping me tonight."

He seeks his scotch glass and polishes its remnants off. "I don't mean to. But you are giving off signals tonight-"

"No. I'm not," House interrupts.

"You've been giving off signals for decades," Wilson counters, exasperated. He's tired of this circuitous route, having them traipse all over their inner selves, when they both know where they're heading. He wants to punch him in the face. He wants to suck his cock.

So he opts for the latter. Without too much fanfare, he unzips House's pants, slides them off, notes that he'd stolen boxers from him, and pulls them off too. House is grinning, almost laughing, bare assed on the counter, when Wilson takes him into his mouth, one hand pumping his shaft. It's not an ideal angle, but he kneels on the floor and takes more of him in. He's only done this once before - in college, where else? - but it's been awhile and he's not as inebriated this time. He feels now how he did then: men's bodies aren't as frightening and foreign as those possessed by women. The male body is something easily understood by a fellow man, House's in particular. He understands him, and nothing is secret.

House slowly starts to harden in his mouth, and in syncopation, the pressure on the back of his neck from House's hands increases, urging him on. House makes a guttural moan, and Wilson looks up to see his eyes locked tight, his head hanging back at an abnormal angle. It's not so much pleasure that's written across his face as it is intense concentration. He removes his mouth for a moment, just to see what happens; House blinks, gauging, as if awaking from a deep sleep.

"What the fuck are you doing?" He says breathlessly. "Why'd you stop?"

With House's cock still close, he moves his head a fraction and licks him in long flat strokes. He tries to give the way that he likes. House responds, his hips squirming, and his labored breathing returns. With hands in his hair again, he urges Wilson's mouth back. He wants to fuck my face, he thinks. And I'm going to let him.

He sucks on as much of his cock as he can, his cheeks going hollow, sliding his mouth up and down. He's almost choking, his gag reflex not used to so much testing, but he takes a few large breaths and focuses on House. He's making the noises of someone who is fighting to control themselves, his body is thrusting and erratic, and he's holding on to Wilson's head like it's a buoy and he's a drowning man. Once he gets used to this, and to House, he starts to enjoy himself. He does, after all, need to feel needed.

When House comes, he seizes, letting out a long, soft moan. Following the golden rule, Wilson swallows in one gulp and wipes the back of his mouth, looking up hesitantly. He gets to his feet.

"Not bad," House mumbles, barely conscious. Wilson smiles, shaking off the pins and needles in his legs, and tidies House up, kissing him again. He couldn't have envisioned this, but even if he could, in his wildest imagination he could not have foreseen House tenderly making out with him, holding him tight. Eventually he slides away, grabbing for the scotch and House's glass, refilling it. "Wilson, if you have any more you'll be comatose within the hour."

"It's true. So, this is for you. I'm going to fuck you, and I think a little extra spirit will help." Wilson hands the glass over and House considers it, tracing the rim.

"You're asking permission to take advantage of me."

It's quiet. The kitchen rumbles with kitchen noises. House finishes his allotted drink and holds it out for a refill, and Wilson complies. "I'd be drinking too, if it wouldn't, you know. I'm nervous." He feels House watching him with care. "I don't know why I'm saying this. You shouldn't - tell someone you're trying to sleep with that you're nervous. But I'd tell you, my best friend, that I was nervous about something. You'd mock me intensely, of course, but I'd still want to tell you. So, I'm telling you."

House reaches out, buttoning and unbuttoning Wilson's top button. "Shut up," he orders, running his fingers over his collar, tugging him closer. He kisses him deeply, their tongues meeting, scotch breath all around. "Where'd you learn to give blow jobs like that?"

Googling 'how to give good head.' "Just something I picked up on the streets."

House polishes off another glass and pushes it away. He clears his throat. "I'd like to talk a little more about this fucking that's coming my way." Wilson strokes House's thigh before applying his lips to his throat, pulling his shirt up and over his head. He kisses his chest, and his left nipple, and his scar. He's worshipping in the exact way he wants when the metallic sound of "Mmmbop" cries in the background. "Ignore it. Everyone can die."

Wilson stands up straight and hands House his t-shirt. There's no way he buys that; he doesn't care what depravity awaits them both if they stay home, House cannot turn away from making the pieces fit. "I'll drive, you're in no condition."

After everyone is assembled and dressed, House pulls Wilson back from the door. "I hope you're okay with this. You've opened Pandora's Box now."

Wilson cocks his head. "I think that's kind of the opposite of this."

House nods curtly. "I'm going to go find out what's keeping a teenage dumbass from getting diagnosed. But, after that, can we-"

"Yes," he cuts him off. "Yes. Don't say it aloud, I'm not drunk enough to recount-"

"You want to fuck me in the ass." Wilson winces. "It's okay, don't feel strange. I'm the one who's going to let you do it." And then House does something so awful. He winks at him before opening the door and sailing out.

-

They rarely touch - no hugs, back patting, punches to the arm given in camaraderie. In fact he wonders if the lack is all on purpose, something he wonders while he's fucking him for the first time.

After what felt like decades of foreplay this evening, he eases in slowly, feeling the tight clench of House's ass. He feels the hitch of his breath and then, "Keep going, Christ, I won't break." When he's in all the way, deep, his balls practically brushing House's ass, he lets out one flat note of a laugh. It's not that this is funny - well, maybe it's a little funny. As he pulls out a little, he clutches at House's hips, sinking his fingers into his flesh, almost on the way to bruising him. This is not funny. This is real. This is serious. And maybe a little funny.

He thrusts in with less patience, House's ass clenching around him. With as much attention as he can re-route, he pants, "Are you - leg okay?"

House's face is lined with pain and desire. He brushes his fingers through stray strands on Wilson's forehead tenderly and asks, "Are you always this loud? Sounds like you're hyperventilating." He winces on 'ating' when Wilson rams sharply into him. "That's better. More of that."

He's used to a standard of being face-to-face during sex, but something about this (clearly) is incredibly awkward and intimate. So far they've been face level with each other's cocks, faces have been crammed against the side of the other's neck, but never have they ever been so close, their bodies slamming against each other, face-to-face. Not that it matters - Wilson is closing his eyes and looking anywhere else.

When he finally gets brave enough, he sees House watching him with those bright, blue eyes. He's curious, inquisitive, and massively turned on, and Wilson can't wait to get his hands on his dick. He tries to cut the thoughts in his head loose, trying to focus on the task at hand, the one he'd been waiting for. In fact he's sure if he lets himself feel it all, whole bodied, he'd be consumed, in flames licking the ceiling of House's bedroom - and it scares him.

House's hands grab his ass and Wilson is suddenly so hard that his vision feels blurry. He seeks release as fast as possible, however unusual, for this unrelenting feeling is making him want to leap out of his skin. He's in and out of House without control, his hips jerking, his hands gripping the sheets, feeling like death is imminent.

But death doesn't come; only an orgasm, one that comes forth from him with a yell in his throat, twisting him down and up through the rabbit hole, on a journey that deposits him softly on solid ground when it's through. He slumps against House, minding his right leg.

After a long beat, House whispers, "Well done. I'm still hard and you're in my ass, so-" Slowly, very slowly, he pulls out, depositing his condom into a tissue, then the package onto the floor. He flops onto his back. Maybe he's breathing. Maybe he's alive. House turns and is hard against Wilson's hip, kissing down the side of Wilson's face and to his neck. "Come on," he chides.

Wilson turns to face him. "Sam and I broke things off. I want you to move in."

House rolls away. "And you've murdered my erection."

Even if he had committed a crime, Wilson rights his wrongs by taking House's cock in hand, jerking him off slowly as he whispers truly filthy things in his ear. House comes whispering his name, "Wilson, Wilson," in a short breathy string.

+

She looks beautiful. The sun is setting and the golden lens over her skin allows her to look younger, softer. She's smiling at him, asking what he thinks of her purple dress. "I'm sure you have a choice eggplant-related comment, but seriously, is this okay for the donor dinner? God, I can't believe you agreed to come."

He looks to the other side of the bed where she's laid out a suit for him to wear. He looks down to his chest, to the Max's Kansas City t-shirt she'd bought for him. It's then that he identifies what smell has been haunting him all day; it's Wilson that's all over his clothes and skin and hair. More accurately, it's the smell of them together, and the scent is heady, robust and honest.

"I can't come with you tonight."

He catches her eye in the mirror as she fusses with her hair. She fights a frown and an outburst and nods curtly instead. "Fine."

"I told you I would because I wanted to make you happy."

Her face in the mirror softens, and the nod turns into understanding territory.

"I thought a shot of that would make this go down easier, but I can't - I'm sleeping with Wilson."

The face in the mirror is shell shocked. She holds his gaze until she throws her earring down on her drawer, after which it rolls to the floor.

He gets up as fast as his legs will carry him and he flattens her against the drawers, his arms tight around her, his eyes staring at the stray diamond earring - one in a pair - that he'd bought for her. "It's been about a month. I couldn't not tell you." He can't see her expression now and he's grateful for that. "But I'm not going to stop with Wilson." Normally he delights in delivery of bad news, but this is only causing his stomach to turn violently. "I'm 51 years old. Look at what I've done to my body over the years - I'm surprised I'm still breathing. With him..." He trails off. She doesn't want to know about the sex, or how it feels, or how even before they were connected skin to skin they were already connected, intrinsically linked. He kisses her shoulder through the material of her dress.

She moves away from him and sits on the bed, and he turns to face her. He reads her face as best as he can, seeing anguish and pain and hurt there. He leans back against the dresser, his hands behind his back. She's quiet for a good three minutes at least when she breaks the silence with, "So, what, we'd share you?"

He honestly doesn't know what the answer is.

"He gets you every other weekend and holidays?" She zips herself out of her dress, not to titillate, but because she looks like she has to change something immediately or she'll die. Her dress pools, wrinkling, on the floor. "I'd like to think I'm a modern woman. I can respect that you have needs I can't fill. And for it to be Wilson, well, I guess that's not a surprise." She pulls her hair back in a ponytail, but without a rubber band it bounces back into place.

"But, then again," she says, and it's here that she looks at him pointedly with those big brooding eyes, "I'm 38 years old. And you violated my trust by fucking another man. By fucking Wilson. You're not asking for us to get through this. You're asking for forgiveness and telling me why you're leaving." She gets up, crosses the short distance, and gives him a long kiss. When she pulls away her eyes are sad, resigned. She feels the stubble of his cheeks and pats him there. "I guess you should go now."

-

He waits for Wilson on the sidewalk, off of Cuddy's property. He thinks it might be safer here. He looks towards the house, ablaze with light. He didn't mean for this to happen like this; he didn't mean to be on the sidewalk with his backpack crammed with belongings, hastily packed while she watched over him, barely stuffing back her sobs. If there was a way to hit undo, to take it all back -

He would still be here on the sidewalk eventually.

Wilson pulls up with his window down, the strains of NPR fading in the air. His face is elated - like it's been for the past few weeks - but it's also masked with as much empathy as he can gather. House slings into the front seat and Wilson lays one hand on his thigh. "The hard part is over."

He knows that the hard part will always exist for him, for them, but he wants so badly for Wilson and his misguided comfort to be right. House leans in and kisses him. He wants to believe.

/end.


End file.
